


Unwritten

by QuillerQueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2019-03-07 05:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13427694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Prompt 44 of OQ Prompt Party 2017: Regina picks up the newest book by her favorite writer. Another best seller that she can't get enough of. What she doesn't realize is that the heroine from those books is inspired by her and the books were written by her sweet, handsome but oh so shy (at least in RL) neighbor Robin.





	1. Chapter 1

The package arrives around noon, delivered to the stables along with her afternoon charges all fitted out in their riding helmets and little boot Grace is among them, and baby Neal, who's only just started to toddle but had been riding like a champ (with ample assistance, of course) for two weeks now. Rarely do Regina's thoughts ever stray from the job she adores—but today is definitely one of those days.

 _Another in a long line of Huntingdon's masterpieces,_ Unwritten _has all the trademark flair we've come to associate with him—yet in many ways it's unlike any of his novels before. 10/10 would recommend!_

_Fantastic—in all senses of the word!_

_An epic battle played out in one remarkable woman's heart. Huntingdon's heroine is stunning in every way._

Oh, she can't wait to rip the paper off of this one, pour herself a glass of wine, and read through the night.

* * *

Only Regina ends up having to wait much longer than she'd like to crack the spine and leaf through crisp pages, because of course luck would have it she's forgotten her damn keys at work.

"Robin can help," Henry pipes up as she huffs in frustration, and before she can stop him he's knocking on number 107's door. "Hey, Robin!"

"Hello, Henry," comes the neighbour's raspy voice with its lilting accent and friendly smile. "Everything all right?"

"We're locked out. Can you help us get in?"

"Somehow," Robin chuckles, "I don't think your mother would approve of my picking your lock."

"She certainly wouldn't," Regina quips, and only then does Robin poke his head into the hallway, his eyes widening at the sight of her. His grin freezes a bit, then his lips pull into an apologetic half-smirk. The scruff is back, she notices, and does it ever suit him. Regina clears her throat (and her wandering mind), readjusts her grip on the rustling package her neighbour's bright blue gaze flickers to, and sighs in resignation. "At least not under normal circumstances."

Desperate times, after all, call for desperate measures.

* * *

_Elysia stretched before them, bathed in liquid gold sunshine painting the land in vivid hues as the drab blackness of Eva Quinn's life lurked behind, shunned and rejected and stripped of its power._

_And the child was reborn—the light of her life, her little prince with claim to no kingdom but the entirety of her heart. He hadn't come from her body, but she'd carried him swaddled and strapped to her chest through swathes of land, through blistering heat and crippling cold, dismissing all her aches only to soothe his, and braving the eternal night of Erebia with only a vague vision of some unknown but staggering light in the future she was fighting to build for the two of them. She'd left an entire life and part of her identity behind, a life only waiting to happen, and carried him here, where they could both be free._

_And the babe stirred in her arms, blinking his little eyes dazedly as a playful sunbeam tickled his chubby cheeks—and hers—for the very first time._

_They had reached their destination—and life was only just beginning._

Regina clutches the book to her with one white-knuckled hand, her other gripping tightly the blanket Henry's snuggled under, fast asleep with his comic long dropped from loose fingers, his solid warmth soothing where he's cuddled into her side. She can't look at him enough, her very own precious little prince—except she can barely see through the tears she hasn't realised are rolling down her cheeks—and have been for a while judging by the state of the front of her pyjamas.  _Oh dear god._

This heroine has hit a nerve. Several nerves, rather. Regina's chest had squeezed when, driven by circumstances, centaur heiress Eva Quinn had given up her birth right and her hooves (and it should be cringe-worthy perhaps, this odd allusion to Ariel applied to a mythical humanoid-turned-human, but somehow Huntingdon's managed to make it not so) in search for a better life. Yes, Regina's chest had squeezed so hard she could barely breathe, scraps of memories of her equestrian career and its untimely end floating to the surface, old emotions flooding her. They no longer scratch and claw at her since she'd worked through them and made her peace with the course her life had taken, found happiness even. But they have a dull, bitter tang all the same, and likely always will. Rarely does she voice them, for rarely has she felt understood—except now, with this fictional kindred spirit, she does.

And then there's the wonder that is a child, a child not grown under your heart but in it, no less, and that's another aspect of Eva Quinn that plucks at her heartstrings—something she has evidence of, she thinks, sniffling and shaking her head as she decides against changing her pyjamas so that she doesn't wake her dozing son.

It is past midnight after all—an hour for most reasonable working people to be asleep.

Regina fluffs her pillow, adjusts the lamp, and reads on.

* * *

To say the book's exceeded her wildest expectations would be an understatement. Her expectations meanwhile had been sky-high, what with each of her favourite author's last dozen works topping the bestseller list and lingering there practically until his newest piece hit she shelves. And she loves them all; but  _Unwritten_ , she can already tell five chapters in, is just… _special_.

It's…fairytale-like. Unusually so for a Huntingdon, who despite his clearly positive outlook and fantastical medium enchants Regina by precisely his realism interspersed with sharp witticisms and clever satire—all while he manages to retain an astonishingly unshaken faith in humanity. She wants to scoff at that, the blind idealism—but it isn't that, not really. He sees the flaws, describes them in vivid detail—and yet. She can only envy him. And thank him, perhaps, for inspiring her to keep her heart open and her guard, well, if not down then at least a bit lower than it would otherwise be.

If only she could tell him face to face. But Robert Huntingdon is a mystery, a pseudonym whose true identity remains hidden from the public, whose only recourse is the author's social media and fan mail address. Regina isn't into either (thank goodness the ranch she works at has someone else to run their social media), and so the only time her enthusiasm bursts forth is when she recommends his books to friends (and, sometimes, strangers) left and right.

Even, it turns out, to clearly busy neighbours at the most inopportune moments.

"Morning, sister," Leroy the postman greets in his usual morose manner as she shuts the door behind her in the morning, tapping his foot and holding up a large box of whatever it is Robin Locksley's trying to haul over the threshold and into his apartment.

"Thanks again for yesterday," she peers inside, and Robin turns around to give her one of those grins that make her belly flutter.

"Any time," he shrugs, fidgeting with a tear in the corner of the package and effectually blocking it from sight as he leans against it.

Regina finds that a bit—off-putting, to be honest, feels almost unwelcome by this odd distance between them as she hangs awkwardly in the doorway while he remains stationed inside by his monstrous delivery. She'd find him hostile if it weren't for the smile playing around his lips and reaching those warm, crystal clear eyes.

She waves the book around on impulse, itching to open it even though it had barely been two hours since she'd put it down to take a twenty-minute nap before she needed to wake Henry for school. She knows Robin likes to read, has had brief discussions of books with him before when they shared short elevator rides, so why not recommend him this treasure?

"Have you started the latest Huntingdon yet?"

"Oh—well…" he rubs the back of his neck, shifting in place. "I haven't had the pleasure yet, no." And then, with visibly increased interest: "How are you liking it?"

Regina is just about to unleash her full enthusiasm on her poor, unsuspecting neighbour, when Henry yells at her to hurry up or they're going to be late, and Robin escapes with just a gasp-turned-yawn and a quick wave as she races for the car.

* * *

Slowly but surely, Regina resigns herself to becoming an absolute mess every time she immerses herself in Eva Quinn's story. She forgets about her surroundings, developing limb stiffness and backaches from the variously convoluted positions she finds herself in, and for the first time in her life arrives to work fifteen minutes late because for a moment she's forgotten there's a job she needs to get to. The only reason she even cooks that night is Henry, but after she burns her trademark lasagna by some miracle (not really—she was sneaking peeks at the pages again, dammit, and didn't event hear the timer go off), they end up ordering in anyway.

_The world, so the teachings went, was split into two great realms, eternal night and permanent light, with no third land for those caught in between._

_If the world was indeed black and white, Eva Quinn was clearly evil._

_Everything she touched turned to dust and ashes. It was like she carried a taint, and whichever way she offered a helping hand, whosoever's life she touched, that taint would spread to them like the plague. Despite her best efforts, regardless of her intent, darkness followed her._

_Perhaps her mother had been right all along. Perhaps, borne of darkness, Eva Quinn was darkness incarnate—and how could she escape herself? Flee from a fate inscribed in her very core, a personal night she carried around in her heart?_

She's glad for the wine tonight, grateful for the slight prickle and burn of alcohol sloshing down her throat and into her belly.

Regina doesn't hate herself. She can say that now, finally. But she also knows all the darkest corners of the lonely, convoluted labyrinth that is self-loathing. It took years of therapy to heal the damage inflicted by her own mother, and oh how broken, how unworthy she'd once felt. And still those dark thoughts, those patterns of self-hate do still rear their ugly head sometimes. They may never quite go away, having been so deeply ingrained in her—but on most days she can handle them now.

Eva Quinn isn't there yet. She doesn't see, even rationally, that the path of destruction she believes she leaves behind is invisible to everyone else in Elysia, dwarven kingdom of purest hearts. She doesn't see the fruit of her labours in the cloud of smoke rising from the blazing trail of ashes she supposedly leaves behind. She's appalled then astonished to receive summons to the royal palace for recognition; remain sceptical of her own worth even as Bianca Neve's court applauds and cheers the newly knighted champion of the righteous and true. Disgusted by the concept of preordained roles to be fulfilled in life rampant in both kingdoms, Eva channels her energy into establishing a new colony, Ephemera, for those who wish to break out of the confines of their prescribed fate.

Regina spots the flaw in her plan immediately, knows she's doomed to failure looking for happiness outside rather than inside before it even happens, and caresses the inked pages as if she could somehow bestow even a bit of gentleness, understanding and compassion, through the paper. If only she could shake Eva Quinn by the shoulders, if only to pull her into a rib-crushing hug—and she grins. It's such a Mary Margaret thought to have, one Regina would have absolutely detested being on the receiving end of once upon a time. Things change though. People change.

Eva Quinn—Regina has to believe this—is also going to get there. Next chapter, or the one after, or perhaps the following one, her journey to self-acceptance must surely begin. And Regina will be there every step of the way.

* * *

The good news is, Eva Quinn's journey does begin a number of chapters later, and Regina is indeed very much there—even though it's at three in the morning.

The bad news is, this book is going to be the death of her.

She doesn't sleep. The nap she intends to take during her lunch break turns into another reading session, intense enough that she drops the fork halfway through her kale salad, food and sleep all but forgotten.

_Food and sleep all but forgotten, Eva Quinn rode through forests and plains, through mountains and dales, through desert and storm, to the castle shrouded in a darkness thicker and more suffocating than it'd ever been. All for the sake of a sickbed. For a few words, whispered and slurred, into her ear as she kissed her father's cheek and sprinkled it with tears. Perhaps if she'd come sooner, or had never left in the first place, he'd—but no. She couldn't have stopped the inevitable. Her father smiled, a bright, childlike thing in the absolute simplicity of his happiness, and how did she have the power to bestow so much joy upon anyone?_

There's a light in your heart, darling _, he told her and seemed to literally beam at the thought,_  there's always been light—and now it's strong, like the heart you carry it within.

_Her shrivelled heart, filled with enough magic to sweeten a dying man's last hours? Large enough to smuggle some of Elysia's sunshine into the land of forever new moon? Could it be?_

_Eva Quinn couldn't comprehend._

_Yet as her father breathed his last breath, his words were ones of pride, and love, and absolution of past wrongdoings in exchange for the promise to allow herself happiness._

Papi had been gone for years. Ten, to be exact—the entire span of Henry's life. Oh how proud he had been, how moved to hold his namesake, his precious grandson, for the first—and last—time when the adoption had been completed.

Regina cries for him tonight, cries for all the time they weren't given together, then cries over all the time they had been gifted as she thumbs through albums filled with memories of her childhood and youth.

No one had loved her quite like him, or sacrificed so much for her happiness, even if he'd failed to protect her from his heartless wife.

The last chapter looms before Regina as she breaks open another box of Kleenex. Already she's overtaken by that unique sense of loss experienced in the wake of a brilliant book. She doesn't even begrudge Robert Huntingdon for turning her into an undignified sobbing mess on the regular, because few other experiences in her life have been so utterly—freeing.

Cathartic.

_Change is incremental, and balance comes from within. As people from all corners of the world begin to embrace the good and bad in themselves, the sun and the moon shine for everyone again. The border between the kingdoms of light and dark is gone, and her son will grow up in a better world._

_Eva Quinn's heart has never been stronger._

Regina is left staring at the page. She's barely breathed through the last few pages, but now her chest expands and she feels light, refreshed and almost weightless despite the alarming lack of sleep lately.

She's still processing, still reflecting when the doorbell rings.

Startled, she shoots a glance at the neon display of the microwave. There's enough daylight that she doesn't need it though, and sure enough, it says 08:15 am.

_Oh, shit._

"Robin, I'm so sorry," she stammers out as soon as she yanks the door open. "I completely lost track of time—"

"Regina, what happened?" His voice is laced with worry, alarm etched into his frowning face. "Are you all right? Henry?"

It takes a good while for his meaning to sink in, and when it does, Regina is mortified. He's standing there all gorgeous in a blue button-down shirt while she's still wearing her work clothes from the day before, and the lack of make up will have those glorious bags under her eyes she's developed in the past few days on full display. Her hair's dishevelled, tear streaks running down her cheeks, eyes puffy from lack of sleep and excessive crying. Oh god, what a sight she must be.

"W—he's fine. We're both fine. Henry's still asleep—shocking for a Saturday morning—but I'm sure he'll be up the moment he hears Roland's over."

"Are you quite sure? Apologies, but you look like you haven't slept a wink. And the flu's been making the rounds of late—"

"It's not the flu," she says, then chuckles at the absurdity of it all. "I'm not sick. Just silly. I blame Huntingdon, actually."

"I…see." Robin draws back at that, a grave look settling on his features instead of the shared laugh she expected to garner from her joke. Instead, she gets a guilt-ridden: "I'm sorry."

"For what? Unless you're secretly him, you've nothing to apologise for."

Her teasing only has him withdraw further, and that's not like him at all.

"What gave me away?"

Is he—is he joking? But either he's developed an impenetrable poker face in the last five seconds, or—he's being serious.

"Oh my god," Regina breathes. This  _cannot_  be.

"You're mad," says Robin, and it could be an accusation or a denial, but he delivers it instead as a n apology. "I quite understand, I shouldn't have—should've been more discreet—"

It is then that it truly hits her.

"Eva Quinn is—is she—?"

"Inspired by you, yes. I never intended any harm. Truth be told, I never planned for you to find out. Although part of me thought you might—maybe even hoped that you'd see yourself the way I—the way others see you. Anyway, no one knows—nor will they ever, I promise you that."

He's rambling, churning out words like he expects her to cut him off any second now and possibly never speak a word to him again.

Regina has a temper—but she doesn't exactly feel the urge to burn him down with its force.

"Robin, I'm not angry with you." Funnily enough, it's true. Is this how starstruck feels? "I'm just—this can't be real. You're my favourite author."

"Present tense?" he asks hopefully, and she rolls her eyes at him dramatically, pleased to see his whole body relax.

"Are you in the book? As a character, I mean?"

"Ah, self-inserts," Robin plays along with the theatrics, mischief in his eyes. "A blemish on everyone's literary resume. So of course I went there. Not a primary character in Eva's life—just a guest appearance here and there."

"Oh. You're—you're Tobin Wood."

Yes, Tobin Wood, friend for a rainy day, popping up here and there at different times of Eva's life, always with a word of encouragement to spare and never asking for anything in return. He's not ever on Eva's radar as a romantic match, and with that knowledge, despite his own secret pining, he never vies for her affections. Regina found this refreshing, and healthy unlike many such occurrence in the realms of fiction and reality both.

She's not sure where this sudden, indistinct pang of disappointment is coming from now.

"You did miss one thing after all," Regina mutters before she realises she might be giving away a bit too much. Or perhaps not—if Tobin has a crush on Eva, perhaps this means Robin has one on Regina, too? He stares at her expectantly, his brow creased, and her mind feels sluggish as she stares back into all that startling blue. "About me and," she clears her throat, "well, your heroine."

The truth is, he did an incredible piece of work, and the effort he put in makes her feel all manner of things. Scraps of information, brief exchanges, subtle, cryptic hints at her life casually shared and forgotten—from these he assembled the puzzle, and the picture is startlingly accurate and at the same time somehow more stunning than she ever saw it—saw herself—for.

Robin rubs the back of his neck, trying to stifle the flush creeping up it. He cocks his head and regards her for a bit. Much to her surprise, his answer carries not a hint of bashfulness.

"Perhaps," he admits, "but I daresay I've captured the essence. Strong and tenacious, no matter what life throws at you. Passionate about what you believe in—and a fiery temper to match. Blunt and guarded and kind, and fiercely devoted to those you love. A sarcastic dreamer. A brilliant instructor—and a wonderful mother."

"Is that really how you see me?" she whispers, blinking back tears that are definitely a sign of exhaustion rather than simply of the impact of his words.

"Yes," he says softly. In response to her watery smile, he adds a smirk of his own. "And an avid reader, apparently."

Regina chuckles, and just like that, the prickle in her eyes stops.

"Especially when it comes to Hunti— When it comes to your books." Dear god, this man, Robin Locksley, her very handsome, very shy for some unfathomable reason, neighbour, is in fact also Robert Huntingdon, the author she looks up to and whose works have meant so much to her—and his latest success is inspired by none other than her. By Regina Mills, currently awkwardly leaning against the door close enough to said man that she gets a whiff of that delicious cologne that's all fragrant pine and the crunch of leaves under hiking shoes. And he seems just as stunned, just as pleased by the latest revelations as she is. "I—thank you. This is the most unique, wonderful compliment I've ever received."

"Not creepy?"

"No," she laughs, because it really isn't. He's never not respectful when describing Eva Quinn, or any of his characters, really—be it their thoughts or their appearance. It's something she likes about his writing—the utter lack of gross objectification or blatant sexism all too rampant in literature and life at large, the care and maturity his characters are crafted with instead. "Not creepy at all."

"Oh thank goodness," he exhales with a self-deprecating, apologetic little grin. His lips fascinate her, and he seems emboldened when he catches her staring. "Regina—" He reaches for her, then seems to think better of it and thrusts his hands into his pockets. She wishes he hadn't. "Not to sound presumptuous, but would you like to—"

"Papa? Papa!" Roland sprints across the hallway and comes to a halt between the two of them. "Regina! Can we go now? I can't wait to ride Foxy again!"

Robin chuckles, throwing Regina an apologetic look as he sweeps Roland into his arms.

"In a moment, my boy. Let's give Regina and Henry just a few more minutes to get ready, and then I'll drive us all to the ranch, how about that?"

And that's not their usual routine, but he's probably reached the conclusion she shouldn't drive in her degree of sleep-deprivation—and he's certainly not wrong. Regina musses Roland's wild curls—he's cute as a button, and she can't be mad at him no matter what, including this particular interruption. But she's frustrated, and clearly so is Robin. He was about to ask her out, she just knows it, and damn if she doesn't stomp out every last bit of doubt he might still have about her interest in him.

"Robin?" she calls after him. "You still owe me that drink you were gonna ask me out for—perhaps after dinner?"

His smile is absolutely radiant, and the way it pulls into a smirk makes her heart—and not only that—flutter.

"I suppose I do."

And that, as they're both soon to find out, is only the start.

_Not because it's written; but because in the end, the hand penning your story is your own._


	2. Unforeseen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt 101 of OQ Prompt Party 2017: Kissing in the rain.

Their first date goes horribly wrong.

Robin has planned everything to the last dot-perfect time, perfect location, perfect everything for the woman he'd had a crush on for as long as he's known her. Only the best for Regina Mills.

Only the weather won't bend to his will, nor listen to his desperate wish to dissolve the steely clouds gathering over their heads, or the buffeting wind scattering their possessions, tearing down fairy lights,and lashing them with breakaway leaves. No-despite Robin's silent prayer to the heavens, the sky opens a bare half hour into their carefully assembled picnic, and pours its contents onto the world.

"I'm so sorry," he shouts over the raging elements, but Regina only grabs his hand and tugs at it.

They make for the car, feet squelching in the grass, soaked to the skin halfway-and then she stops in her tracks.

Robin grabs her by the hips to steady himself, another apology spilling from his lips. He can barely make out her face through the heavy rain when she pries his hands from her body and whips around.

Shit, this is a disaster. He fully expects a reprimand, laced with anger and disappointment, with regret that she'd ever given this a chance.

Heavy-hearted, he slips his hands from under hers, cringing at the boldness of his touch clearly unwelcome to her-but instead of letting go she grasps his fingers more firmly and places their joined hands on her hips again.

Robin blinks.

The mighty downpour eases to a light rainfall.

And Regina stays, weaving her fingers with his, the car quite forgotten.

Perhaps all is not lost after all.

"I wanted this to be special," he confesses miserably. "Cliche, I know; but you did tell me you enjoy my efforts to give those a fresh touch in my books."

Regina tilts her head at him, and the sheer beauty of her punches him right in the gut. Her dark locks are a mess sticking to her face and neck, her sundress clinging to her skin, and he swears she's never looked more beautiful.

"Oh Robin," she sighs, those chocolate browns swirling with emotion as they stare right into his bared soul. They always feel that way-magic, how naked he feels under them, how he doesn't in the slightest bit mind.

He only wishes he could read her now as thoroughly as she claims-half fascination, half caution-he can.

Wishes he could scrap this scene gone bad and write it anew, as many times as he needs to get it exactly right.

Regina's eyes are still boring into him, her tongue darting out to lick away the teardrop clinging to her lips. Lips he'd hoped to taste tonight, had things gone well. Which they haven't.

"I'm sor-"

But she won't let him finish his renewed apology. Her hands dart up to fist the lapels of his shirt, and instead of pushing him away she yanks him closer, their lips hovering a hair's breadth apart, the tips of their noses touching. She smells divine, a heady mix of perfume, damp earth, and  _Regina_ , pressed up against him head to toe-and can he really be such a lucky bastard?

"This is perfect," she breathes, her words tickling his lips as thunder rumbles in the distance and a lonely sunbeam breaks through the clouds.

And then-they kiss. And kiss. And kiss. They revel in every coming together of their lips, every sigh as the sweet kiss deepens, and the matching little moans as their tongues slide gently together.

When their lips part with a soft pop, their foreheads come together instead, as if they couldn't bear an inch of distance between them.

They stand there, wrapped up in each other, as the rain caresses them.

Perfect, indeed.


End file.
